


Wolves

by adamprrishcycle



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, the dream pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 09:52:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7097641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamprrishcycle/pseuds/adamprrishcycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little look into the workings of Kavinsky's mind concerning the Dream Pack and Ronan Lynch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolves

Kavinsky often thought of them as he drove alone at night. His boys, wherever, or in whatever state he’d left them. Fucking, fighting, partying, sleeping. Happy or sad. Angry or indifferent. He always left them in the middle of something, but he always came back to pick up their messy pieces.

They couldn’t survive without him, and it thrilled him each time he thought about it. He could sense it in everything they said and did, the way Scov told him exactly what he’d missed as soon as he came back, the way Jiang’s eyes, heavy with narcotics, would slide to him as he entered the room and his mouth would quirk into an almost-smile. It felt good. He felt wanted. He felt needed. He felt fucking powerful.

He knew that Prokopenko would miss him the most and would be needy and responsive to everything he said or did. _Get me a drink, Proko. Come here, Proko. Get on your knees, Proko._ He was delightful sometimes, just the way Kavinsky had made him. The thought of him now; cold hands, warm lips, almost had him turning the car around and jumping every red light all the way home.

He thought of Swan too. Pessimistic, moody Swan who would pretend he was disgusted by the way Prokopenko pandered to him, but secretly waited and pleaded with those big, sad eyes for approval.

His chest swelled sometimes with this feeling he had for them, and though he suspected he knew what it was, he never dared to say it out loud. Prokopenko had said it once. It had been the two of them sat side by side on the curb, passing a cigarette back and forth in the sunshine as they waited for Scov. They hadn’t been speaking, there’d been no need to really. A motorbike had whizzed by and they both watched it go and as the grumble became quieter as it got further and further away, Prokopenko had handed the cigarette back to Kavinsky, kicked his ankle lightly with his own foot and said quite casually, _“I love you, you know.”_

He’d been himself then. Two weeks after that, Kavinsky had dreamt him anew. He’d made sure the new Prokopenko wouldn’t say it. It wasn’t that he was scared of the word, it was just that he knew how he felt for his boys. He didn’t need to label it with complicated feelings and tainted words. It just was.

But now, as Kavinsky drove, someone else slipped into his thoughts. Someone who made him want to swerve into oncoming traffic. A terrible rift in his perfect world.

_A perfect rift in his terrible world._

Thinking about Ronan Lynch made Kavinsky’s chest hurt. The boy had come from nowhere really. One day he was invisible, the next day he was a burning beacon of pent up rage and energy. The first time Kavinsky had glimpsed the black, sprawling tattoo that spanned his back and had raced him on dusty, hot asphalt, he’d known that Lynch belonged with them. With him.

But Lynch was a stubborn motherfucker and continued to evade Kavinsky every chance he got. He was up for a race and he would exchange charged and cutting words, but then he would disappear. He would go back to Dick Gansey and let him lick his wounds. He would act like he was better than Kavinsky and his pack. He would act like he didn’t give a shit.

Kavinsky squeezed the steering wheel and checked the rearview mirror just in case there was a black BMW sneaking up behind him, it’s driver most likely drunk and pumped up on adrenaline, looking for a rush.

And oh, how Kavinsky would enjoy giving him a rush. How he would crave to give him more than the screech of tyres on tarmac and his eyes reflected back in the mirror, squinting slightly in the bright glow of the BMW’s headlights. How he would love to have him in the backseat of the Mitsubishi and run his fingers over his shoulders, his chest, over the lines of his tattoo, digging them into his hipbones until he hissed and finally pushing them underneath his waistband. How he longed to make him cry out; curses, threats, promises and his name, only his name.

But Lynch was never there when he needed a good time. He had mastered the art of letting Kavinsky down, and it only made him want him more. It was a sick game and Kavinsky, who usually loved games, had finally found his match. His equal- no, _his better._

He knew the others didn’t like Lynch, but he couldn’t go around pleasing them all the time. Lynch was his little piece of chaos. His dirty little secret. The boys would take the piss but they knew how Kavinsky got when he set his sights on someone, so they would complain, but they’d let him get on with it. The only one that caused a problem was Prokopenko with his whining and his guilt trip eyes. The way he asked Kavinsky where he was going when he knew he was going to meet Lynch. The way he’d initiate fights just to get him to stay a little bit longer.

_“Why aren’t I good enough?”_ He’d said once and Kavinsky had slapped him across the face and he’d smiled with blood in his teeth because he knew he deserved it. The next time he’d got upset he’d said that Lynch hated Kavinsky, that he couldn’t stand the sight of him and would never want him back. Kavinsky had kicked him in the ribs until he was sobbing and begging him to stop and when he finally did, he spat on him and left.

He came home a couple of hours later and Prokopenko was in the bathroom with the door locked. Kavinsky knocked lightly and asked him to let him in and after a few minutes, he had. He was shirtless and his ribs and stomach were covered with bruises that looked like dark blooming roses. Kavinsky was proud that he was the one who put them there, but he knew that Prokopenko was hurting, inside more than out, so he got down on his knees in front of him and murmured, _“I’m sorry,”_ as he took hold of his hips and kissed his stomach. He kissed up over his ribs and his chest and his neck. He finally reached his mouth and kissed him there too.

_“Don’t be mad, babe,”_ he had whispered. He knew Prokopenko loved it when he called him that. And suddenly, all was forgiven.

Nothing with Lynch had ever been that soft and that’s what made the thought of him so tantalizing.

He cursed him silently, and pulled a vicious U-turn and headed back towards Henrietta. He’d left the boys at a drive-thru at the edge of town, their cars clustered together at the edge of the parking lot.

When he got there, only Jiang was still parked up. He was smoking alone with the windows rolled down and a steady thumping beat pulsed from within the car.

“Ditched again?” Kavinsky asked as he approached the window. Jiang scowled at him but there was no real heat to it. Jiang’s mom had run off when he was young and his father had remarried and had a happy new family with his new bitch of a wife, so Jiang was sensitive about the subject of being ‘ditched.’ Kavinsky was the only person who could mention it without being hit in the face, so he often played this to his advantage.

“They got bored of waiting for you,” Jiang retorted.

“Bullshit,” Kavinsky grinned. They never got bored of him.

Jiang smirked. “Swan was out of that Bombay gin he loves and Scov wanted some shitty beer. Proko went along for the ride ‘cause he’s a fuckin’ suck-up.”

“Or maybe he didn’t wanna be stuck waiting with you,” Kavinsky said. “You can be a bit of a bore sometimes, and you know how Proko gets.”

Jiang was often quiet and reserved and Kavinsky didn’t consider him boring in the slightest, but he enjoyed winding him up about it.

“They’ll be back soon,” Jiang said and rolled his window back up.

“Oh, come on,” Kavinsky protested, though he loved when Jiang played with him. He hit the window with his fist and Jiang held his middle finger up at him, so he gave up and went into the fast food place.

There was a girl behind the counter in a cap and a badge that claimed she was happy to help. She smiled half-heartedly as Kavinsky approached and he ordered a cheese burger, making sure he called her sweetheart in all the right places, laying the sleaziness on thick. She looked like she was from the trailer park on the east side of town. Trailer park girls ate this shit up. He asked her what time she got off, though he had no intention of sticking around. She blushed a lot and it reminded him of a girl he used to see, Deb or Dan or something. She wrote her number on the paper packaging of his burger and passed it to him. He sauntered back through the virtually empty restaurant, removing his burger and tossing the wrapper, phone number included, into the trash as he walked away. He didn’t look back, although he would have liked to see the expression on her face.

When he got outside, the others were back and Scov whooped when he saw him. Swan looked pointedly at the remainder of the burger in his hand.

“Just look out for yourself why don’t you,” he said sarcastically.

Kavinsky finished the burger in one bite and pulled a dollar out of his back pocket, holding it out to him.

“Don’t say I don’t treat you,” he sneered and Swan snatched the dollar bill from him and tore it in half. Scov laughed. He was always fucking laughing.

“We’re not staying here, kids, so don’t get comfortable,” Kavinsky said and he headed back towards his Mitsubishi. Someone jogged after him and he didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Where’re we going?” Prokopenko asked eagerly and he climbed into the passenger seat as Kavinsky got in the other side.

“Where do you wanna go, babe?” He was still thinking about that night when they’d argued about Lynch. Prokopenko’s face lit up.

“Let’s just go back to yours,” he said.

“You’re so fucking predictable, I don’t know why I even ask,” Kavinsky replied, shaking his head as he started the engine. He didn’t need to look around to know the others were going to follow him.

As they drove, Prokopenko slumped down in the seat and stretched his legs out in the footwell. Kavinsky tried not to glance over at him. He was always so distracting and what was worse, the sly motherfucker knew it too. 

Back at the house, the boys piled down into the basement and Kavinsky followed them a few steps behind, allowing them to organize themselves around the room so he could watch them shift towards him as soon as he sat down.

Scov and Swan were already arguing about something as Swan poured himself some of his gin. He poured a second glass and handed it to Jiang. They had a tendency to offer their shit to each other. They had similar tastes.

Kavinsky sat down on the couch and watched them bickering but Swan stopped to look up.

“K?” He said, lifting the bottle up in offering. 

Kavinsky shook his head and then Prokopenko was there. He bent down and kissed him, betting on Kavinsky’s reaction and running his fingers though his hair when he kissed him back. 

“Hey, none of that,” Scov said, tearing his attention away from Swan. “I’m not spending the night watching you two make out and dry hump on the couch,” he paused, then added with emphasis, “again.”

Prokopenko pulled away from Kavinsky long enough to say, “you jealous?”

“Someone’s cocky tonight,” Kavinsky said, tapping Prokopenko’s chin to regain his full attention and ignoring Scov completely.

“I’ll watch,” Jiang said, settling down on the opposite couch. “I’m not fucking fussy. I don’t get enough action.” He was smoking again.

“Bless you,” Kavinsky said, unable to pass up another opportunity to rip the shit out of him. “I’d share Proko with you, but he only whores himself out for me. Don’t you, babe?”

Prokopenko was gazing back at Kavinsky, the others seemingly forgotten as he nodded. The glazed look in his eye was too much dream, too little Proko so Kavinsky leaned in and kissed him forcefully.

“Really?” Kavinsky heard Scov say. “So where the hell do you disappear off to at parties? I always thought you were hooking up with people.”

“I go to smoke.” Jiang said.

“Yeah, smoking with all those people and the music gives me a fucking headache.” Swan said.

“Wait, what the fuck?” Scov demanded, outraged. “You go with him? Swan, you traitorous bastard.”

Kavinsky finally pushed Prokopenko away, keeping a possessive hand on his thigh as he turned to the others.

“Just ‘cause you’re a slut, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be,” Swan said darkly.

Kavinsky smirked, enjoying it all.

“If you’re tryna make me feel bad, it’s not gonna work,” Scov spat with delighted venom. He loved a good fight. “I have a fucking blast. K can tell you all about it.”

“That’s different,” Swan said through gritted teeth.

“Jiang, babe,” Kavinsky said and Scov and Swan stopped arguing instantly, falling silent to let him speak. He felt Prokopenko tense beside him. He didn’t like when Kavinsky called other people _babe,_ even if it was one of the other boys.

Jiang squinted at Kavinsky.

“Go upstairs,” Kavinsky said. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Charity case,” Scov hissed playfully as Jiang stubbed out his cigarette and headed up the stairs.

Kavinsky got to his feet. “No hate sex in front of Proko while I’m gone,” he said sternly in Scov’s direction. 

“I’m not fucking touching him,” Swan said viciously, jerking his chin at Scov. Kavinsky knew it was all bullshit. They were crazy about each other. He placed a kiss on Prokopenko’s forehead and crossed the room to climb the stairs. He silently prayed he wouldn’t say Lynch’s name tonight as he climaxed.

These boys were gonna be the fucking death of him, he was sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> TADAAA! I honestly enjoy writing about the dream pack more than anything. There's so much potential where their characters are concerned so I hope you enjoyed my interpretation of them!


End file.
